


Here Comes Santa Claus

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 07:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5531180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry lets it slip to Eggsy's little sister that Santa is not real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Comes Santa Claus

**Author's Note:**

> For [Acacia,](http://eggaleggsy.tumblr.com/) whose prompt was about Harry accidentally telling Daisy Santa isn't real. I hope you have as much fun reading this as I did writing it!

Michelle doesn’t like Harry Hart.

Harry has been trying to change that, but with the combination of him being the one to tell her that her husband died, him being the one whose supposed death made her son spiral into depression for months after V-Day, and him being the one dating said son...the odds, as Roxy once said, were not in his favor.

But he still tries. He tags along with Eggsy to Sunday supper, making sure to bring in a contribution: a large chocolate tart, a savory pasta dish, or once even a whole roasted chicken. These meals are often awkward, with Eggsy having to start the conversations and loudly coo over Daisy when the inevitable silences permeate the room.

Harry would honestly rather charge fifty armed gunmen, if it weren’t for Daisy. Daisy is much like her brother—rambunctious, boisterous, and sweet. She still carries scars from living with her father and the events of V-Day, eyes darting from corner to corner and flinching with every raised voice, but Daisy still runs at Harry and Eggsy when the door opens and throws her arms around their legs, squealing. Eggsy always picks her up and spins her around once—Daisy leaning her head back and laughing—while Harry ruffles her hair and asks her what she’s been up to.

Daisy wants to learn everything—from basic French to the particulars of fencing—and spends a lot of time after dinner practicing her latest hobby with Harry, who’s kicked out of the kitchen on Eggsy’s insistence about guests not doing work. He’s sure Michelle wouldn’t mind Harry picking up a dishrag and scrubbing stubborn gunk off of plates, but Harry thinks Michelle likes moments alone with her son even more.

Michelle tiptoes around Eggsy, looking at him as if she can’t quite believe he’s all grown up. Harry can see the change from the sulking, wary, young lad he first met by the police station to the confident, smiling man who stands tall, even without a bespoke suit. But he can’t imagine what it must be like for Michelle. Eggsy’s twenty-four now, so different from the boy shaking a snow globe.

One particular evening, Harry can see her staring after Eggsy, who had kissed her cheek and volunteered to put the dirty plates and silverware in the dishwasher. Normally, Michelle protests this and joins him anyway, but this time, she watches Daisy tug on Harry’s arm and show him her cartwheels. Last time, she’d expressed a new desire to learn gymnastics, and she’d been amused by her brother and Harry tumbling around and walking on their hands on the front room carpet, furniture pushed over to the sides. Michelle had stood by, lips turned up in a half-smile, especially when Daisy squealed and clapped over Harry executing a perfect backflip over Eggsy’s head.

“Hart,” Michelle now says.

Harry inclines his head in reply.

“You’re good with Daisy.” Michelle glances at her daughter, grinning when she lifts her arms and pumps the air, half-skipping to begin a set of cartwheels. “Have you had siblings?”

Harry shakes his head. “Only child.”

“...Kids?”

“Never married, and never really considered the possibility after I joined Kingsman.” He tries to imagine a tiny boy with brown waves and green eyes, or a girl with blonde curls and glasses. Even though he and Eggsy spent most of their second morning together discussing the future, the subject of children had not come up. How could it? Hardly anyone in Kingsman had them—though Percival and James often looked after Roxy when her parents had other obligations—and there wasn’t exactly a daycare center at Kingsman headquarters. For dogs, yes, but for children whose parents might not come back? No.

Besides, Harry never thought about being a parent, not—

“I fell!” Daisy suddenly shrieks, still on her bottom, and Harry gently lifts her up to place her on her feet.

“Think: hand, hand, foot, foot, Daisy. Don’t be afraid of the weight change in the middle.” Harry then demonstrates, in slow motion, mindful of not knocking into the wall with his oxfords.

Daisy screws up her face in concentration. “All right.” She glances at the carpet, hands raised, ready to try again.

“Well. You don’t seem to do half bad.” Michelle reluctantly admits, glancing over at the kitchen, with its sounds of clinks of silverware and drawers opening and shutting. Harry can also hear Eggsy singing a pop song, the line _“the night is young”_ repeating in a sweet tone. “Listen, if you two are available on Christmas Eve, we were thinking about doing a roast and walking around a little. Look at lights and decorations, get hot chocolate, that sort of thing.”

Harry tries his best not to check for signs of mind control or drop his jaw. He instead watches Daisy, who crows at her success of a clumsy, but successful cartwheel. “Did you see that, Mr. Hart? Did you see that?”

“Well?” Michelle asks, arms crossed.

“Yes,” he manages to say, grinning in Daisy’s direction. “Yes, of course.”

\---

Sunday suppers are more pleasant after that conversation. Eggsy doesn’t always have to start conversations, and Michelle actually _smiles_ at Harry. They go out more often together, shopping for presents and decorations, and coming back to the flat to put it in holiday cheer. Harry takes turns with Eggsy lifting Daisy to place ornaments on the tree, help her roll out dough for Christmas cookies, and frequently asks her what she’d like for Christmas this year.

One thing he does not join in is the constant chattering about Santa. Santa this, Santa that, stories of the bearded man coming down the chimney to bring goodies and sweets. The talk only makes Harry roll his eyes, and more when Michelle and Eggsy only encourage the lie.

It gets worse when Harry bundles up after a long, brutal mission in Prague to go to the mall with Eggsy and his family. His head aches from another migraine, his right leg aches after turning the wrong way on a terrible landing on a balcony, and Merlin’s incessant lecturing still rings in his ears. But he’s willing to go if it means asking after Daisy’s newest attempt at handstands or seeing her giggle at reindeer decorations.  

Except…it’s to see Santa.

Eggsy now beams as Michelle tugs Daisy into the very long line, so far away that the man in red can’t be seen unless Harry stands on his toes—which he refuses to. An incessant amount of “Here Comes Santa Claus” on repeat and children’s eager little shrieks only serve to make Harry’s headache worse, and it’s not helped by parents crowded around and taking flash photography. “Wonder what she’ll wish for?”

Harry shifts to his left leg to take pressure off his right, and under his breath, mutters: “Santa is just a way for parents to determine what their kids want for Christmas and be a symbol for corporate greed to pander to a specific, money-making demographic. But, yes, Daisy will tell your mother, I’m sure, what she asked from Santa so she can conveniently stop by a shop here and get it.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes, nudging Harry gently in the side. “Ha, ha, ha, Harry. Getting into the holiday spirit already?”

“It’s a silly tradition,” Harry protests, voice getting slightly louder. Daisy, in front of them, chatters on and on with another child about Santa. “What can be gained from lying to children about a man who brings them gifts?”

“It’s to get the kids to behave, so Santa won’t put coal in their stocking.”

Harry sighs. His head twinges again. “I can’t imagine parents actually doing that, even if their child was a self-absorbed bastard.”

Eggsy snickers, as a woman nearby glares at Harry, covering her own child’s ears. “It’s tradition, Harry, be a sport."

Harry rolls his eyes. “My dear, you wouldn’t be in Kingsman—nor would Roxy—due to tradition.”

“Oh, come off it, Harry, you’re being silly—“

Harry sighs again. He wants to go home, lie down in bed with Eggsy, and forget this awful day.

His voice rises, “Silly, like all these children and these parents believing in an imaginary figure? Santa is _not_ real, and I don’t know why you pretend otherwise.”

Someone beside him gasps.

It’s Daisy.

The little girl’s eyes are wide, as she loudly proclaims, right in the middle of a crowded shopping mall: “There is no Santa?”

\---

Harry’s made children cry before. (Percival has never quite forgiven him for making Roxy howl over an accidentally-snapped-in-two light saber.) But never before had he been responsible for such caterwauling of hundreds—and being kicked out of the mall as a result. Michelle follows suit, holding a trembling-lipped Daisy and glaring so hard at the back of Harry’s head that he can feel the membranes begin to split. Eggsy apologizes to everyone who might listen. 

He does not take Harry’s hand once.

Daisy’s still sniffling by the time they get back to the flat, and Michelle pointedly tells Harry and Eggsy goodbye before practically slamming the door behind her.

They walk home in silence.

It’s Eggsy’s turn to slam the door after they enter, then furiously untie his boots, cursing when they don’t unlace after the first try. 

Harry tries to lighten the mood as he hangs up his jacket on the coat rack: “Well, that didn’t go well.”

“For fuck’s sake, Harry, couldn’t you have said that a little louder? Maybe make more kids cry while you’re at it?”

Eggsy’s volume is far too loud for the little room, piercing the exact twinge that’s been bothering Harry all night long.

“I cannot believe we are fighting over Santa,” Harry suddenly snaps.

“It’s not just about Santa!” Eggsy shouts back. “Damn it, Harry, maybe people _like_ believing in someone giving them what they want, especially after a shit-ridden year!” He kicks at the ground. “Maybe they _like_ hoping in something good, something impossible, just to keep themselves from going mad!”

Harry’s heart drops into his stomach. He has the feeling they are no longer fighting over a mythological Christmas figure. “Eggsy—“

“My Christmases were shit, okay?” Harry can imagine lonely Christmases, cheerful decorations trying to replace the hole in the world, or tense-filled days of arguing and slaps from Dean. “This is my little sister’s first Christmas away from her fucking father, and my mum and I wanted to make it special. I never believed in Santa, not since Dad died, and I want Daisy to be happy rolling out cookies and believing that someone else is looking out for her happiness.” Eggsy turns away, without so much as a glance back. “I’m going to bed, Harry.”

\---

 Harry Hart does not apologize.

Except, of course, when it comes to the Unwins, it seems.

Harry is unofficially banned from the next Sunday supper. Eggsy leaves without him, and when Harry arrives, bearing peppermint sticks, Daisy takes one look at him and pouts, chin quivering, and Michelle and Eggsy pointedly glare at him until Harry mutters something like “work” and trots home, tail between his legs.

Harry does log into his home computer and try to complete paperwork, only to call Merlin through the glasses to bemoan his fate.

“You were always a thoughtless idiot,” Merlin says afterwards.

“Thank you, old friend.” Harry sighs. “That helps my situation greatly.”

“You fucked up, but if Eggsy is going to break up with you because of Santa—“

“It’s not just about—“

“I know, Harry, I know. But instead of moaning about it, what are you doing to fix it?” Merlin pauses. “Why are you really so against Santa? I didn’t know you were a shining paragon railing against the corruption of capitalism.”

Harry touches the tips of his fingers to his forehead in exasperation. “I…I just don’t like the idea of telling children to…expect something when inevitably someth—someone will fail them.”

He remembers eager legs carrying him to the mail room, the head boy shaking his head. _No letters, Hart, sorry._ He remembers trying to smile and laugh as the other boys around him compare presents and holiday vacations with families, looking around the gloomily-decorated hall in boredom. He remembers pathetic drooping holly and a half-dead tree in the mostly-empty common room—and under the tree, one bundle with a tag he recognizes as the head boy’s scrawl: _to Harry, from Santa._

Harry then remembers his small, shaking hands pitching the wrapped package into the fire lit in the old brick fireplace and watching it burn.

“Harry.” Merlin’s voice is still stern, but gentler, now. “You can’t spoil another Christmas.”

Harry’s throat clenches tighter. He now recalls a sweet, soft-spoken boy in a blue sweater, taking a medal in his chubby fingers.

“I won’t,” he says. “I won’t.”

\---

On Christmas Eve, Harry follows Eggsy to his mother’s house, careful not to arouse the younger man’s attention. There’s a reason why Merlin hardly puts him on stealth missions, so with every duck behind a house or cracked branch, Harry holds tight to his bundle and prays for Eggsy to keep walking. Once Eggsy is inside, with a suspicious glance behind him, Harry takes a deep breath, and feeling foolish, knocks on the door.

Eggsy opens it, with Daisy on his hip, snapping, “I _know_ you’re here—I—“

“Santa!” Daisy gasps, jaw dropping in astonishment.

Harry smiles, inwardly grimacing at the itchiness of the cheap red fabric and the slight pinch of his toes in the boots. The white, fluffy beard rental keeps falling down his chin, so Harry had to use sticky paste from the costume store to keep it on his face. The folded pillow underneath his suit keeps sliding every which way, like a lump of melting ice cream.

But the smile on Daisy’s face is worth it. “ _Santa?_ Santa, come in! Please, Eggsy?”

Her older brother stares. “Uh. Yes. Of course, _Santa,_ do come in.”

Michelle’s in the kitchen, stirring the cranberry sauce, when she turns her head at the sound of shutting door. “Eggsy, what’s— _who is this?”_

“Santa, Mum!” Daisy says happily. “I knew he was real—I—“

“Right. _Santa.”_ Michelle’s look of disbelief almost exactly matches her son’s. “Uh-huh. What is _Santa_ doing, may I ask?”

“I come bringing tidings and good cheer to the Unwin household.” Harry gestures to the bundle thrown over his shoulder. Hopefully, it’s still turned down so the Manchester United symbol doesn’t show. “And I have something special for Miss Daisy Unwin.”

Daisy’s eyes widen. “For me?”

“For you.” Harry gently lowers the bag down, mindful of the stacked pies at the bottom, and pulls out a wrapped bundle. “This one you can open early.”

Daisy looks to her brother and mother, silently asking for permission, and both of the Unwins nod, watching Harry pass the gift to Daisy, who immediately rips it open with eager fingers.

It’s a leotard, bright blue with daisies on the front, tucked with a big, puffy mat with matching flowers. Daisy touches the bright yellow hand and footprint marks. “For cartwheels,” she says, with a grin.

“For cartwheels,” Harry agrees.

“They’re so pretty.” Daisy continues, then picks up a slip of crumbled paper that fell on the floor. “What’s this?”

“Gymnastics lessons at a local children’s gym.” Harry had gone to the place himself and liked every bit of it, from the foam pits and bright blue tumbling mats to the enthusiastic, patient instructors. “You can start after New Year’s.”

“H— _Santa,_ this is too much, really!” Eggsy protests, but at the delighted, jumping dance from Daisy, complete with more squeals, sighs. “All right, then, Daisy, what do you say?”

“Thank you!” Daisy sings. “Thank you, Santa!” She hugs Harry tightly around his legs, and looks up at him with a large grin. Harry ruffles her hair. “I can’t wait to tell Mr. Hart that he’s wrong! Eggsy, is he still coming over?”

Eggsy tries and fails to hide a smirk. “Yes, love, he’s coming over. Why don’t you help Mum in the kitchen while I call him?”

Daisy, with one last hug, skips away, babbling excitedly about her gifts. Harry sinks down on one of the chairs, as Eggsy comes over, stepping as lightly as a puma on the hunt.

“So, _Santa,”_ Eggsy says, sitting down on his lap with a cheeky grin. “What’d you bring me?”

Harry sighs. “Darling, I will go along with Santa while we are in this house, but I’m _never_ going to think of that man as sexy.”

“So, you’re going to say no to a kiss?” Eggsy pouts, sticking out his bottom lip.

Harry laughs, pulling him in closer, with a “What do you think?” and presses his lips against Eggsy’s. Eggsy winds his arms around Harry’s neck and kisses back, even though he has to briefly pull away to extract white hairs from the curly beard. Harry cups the back of Eggsy’s head, the other arm snaking around his waist when—

“Mum!” Daisy suddenly cries, and both of the men freeze. Eggsy’s sister is standing in the doorway, pointing accusingly at them with a fierce look in her eyes. “Eggsy was kissing Santa Claus! Santa, Eggsy’s supposed to kiss Mr. Hart, not you!”

Harry closes his eyes. _Shit._


End file.
